


Whiskey Kissed

by CatieBrie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Frottage, Loud Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Topping from the Bottom, sex sex sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-05 19:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5387183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatieBrie/pseuds/CatieBrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg arrived at the Cross Keys earlier than Sherlock thought, much to a frustrated John's benefit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Whiskey Kissed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Holly (HHarris)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/gifts).



> This is an incredibly late birthday gift for my wonderful, incredibly patient friend Holly. I'd also like to thank Kita for her betaing because frankly, half of what I write wouldn't be published without her corrections and encouragement! I am so sorry for the delay, and I hope you enjoy!

The bed squeaked and groaned beneath them, a loud soundtrack that nearly drowned out the breathy moans and slick sounds of sex.

John really couldn’t say how it started, especially as he gripped the headboard to help ease the weight of his knees and thighs, the slide of Greg’s cock in and out as John bounced and rolled his hips a fine distraction. Alcohol still stung his veins, giving everything a fuzzy, languid slowness that counterpointed the frantic gripping of Greg’s fingers, the quickness of their breath.

John sat fully until his arse pressed against Greg’s thigh and leaned forward, legs shaking as he buried his nose in the crook of Greg’s neck. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah.”  John could tell Greg was laughing, chest vibrating beneath him.  John rotated his hips in lazy circles, enjoying the hums Greg gave in response, languishing in the rough bite of Greg’s fingers at his arse.  Greg’s hips rose and twitched beneath John’s weight. “Why’d you stop?”

“To torment you.”

Greg groaned and let his head hit the headboard. “Bastard.”

 

—

 

John decided he’d had enough of the evening.  In fact, he’d had enough of this godforsaken case and his godforsaken flatmate and really, after such a fantastically awful day he should have just called it quits and curled into bed. However, the clink of glasses and low murmurs burbling from the bar area convinced him that he’d sleep better with a drink in his belly.

So John drank his frustration down with a tasteless, fine-crafted beer.  It warmed his bones and agitated the aging sting of hurt and the newer one of rejection; failure edged it all like fine gilding. With a rough shake of his head he shifted thoughts of Sherlock to the back of his brain where they were easier to ignore.

“Lover’s spat, eh?”  

John startled and then pressed his lips together to keep from snapping: nosy, no-good— _oh_.  “Greg?”

Greg grinned, teeth spectacularly white against his newly tanned skin.  “Thought you were going to take my head off for a second there.”

“What are you doing here?”  John wrinkled his nose when his tone came out pointed and unfriendly.  Greg didn’t seem to mind, instead waving down the barman—Gary?—for a pint of his own.  Order in, he hooked an ankle beneath the stool next to John and slid it out with a bump and a scrape. He looked good, finely tanned and teeth bright against the new darkness of his skin.  John’d always thought he looked fit, but this was unfair.

“Would you believe I’m here on vacation?” Greg asked as he sat.

“Absolutely not.”

“Eh, worth a shot.  Sherlock will throw a fit.”  He kept up his grin as he turned to better face John, making it impossible for him to miss when John’s lip pulled down in the corner, an involuntary sneer that John tried to hide behind his glass.

“Ah, so you _are_ fighting.” Greg smiled conspiratorially, eyes bright before he grabbed his own glass lifting it in a cheeky cheers motion before swallowing deeply from it. “What did he do, ruin a date?”

John shook his head, smiling in spite of himself.  “No, not this time.”

“He’s done it before though, hasn’t he?  Gangly cock-blocker, he is.”  Greg laughed and John felt his face split in a wider grin; he found Greg’s oddly amicable mood butting against his sour one, lifting it inch by jolting inch.  He drained his glass and motioned for another one.

“I suppose.”  He almost left it at that, but Greg seemed likely to pry and John _really_ didn’t want to talk about how Sherlock’s outburst had actually dug deep beneath his breastbone and tugged, nasty and unexpected. So: “But I won’t blame him for someone else’s bad timing.”

Greg laughed again to John’s relief—his deflection was flimsy at best but Greg was content to drink his beer and let it be.  Besides, he’d not given John a clear answer either.  Whatever reason had brought Greg there, John was glad for it and the company.

"Can't catch a break," Greg commented, looking some odd combination of smug and commiserating; John thought he might’ve seen a bit of heat as well, but alcohol and the growing frustration of the day could have been coloring his perception.

John snorted but couldn’t put the thought out of his head, eyeing Greg closely.  “Look who’s talking.”

“Oi!” Greg kicked him as best he could between their stools.  “I’ve got a pretty demanding job, haven’t I?”

“And I don’t?”

“I guess babysitting Sherlock Holmes is a full time ordeal.”

“Don’t go forgetting I’m a doctor, now.”

“Mm-hm, I suppose that’s true.”  The twinkle in Greg’s eye kept John from taking offence.  “I always wondered about that—when do you ever work?”

“All the time.” John went to drink from his beer only to find he’d already finished it.  He lifted the glass, glaring at it disapprovingly.  “I’m going mental.”

“You’re in good company,” Greg said as he finished his second pint off.  “I did ages ago.”

He pushed back nearly toppling over his chair in the process and then stood. There was definite intent in his dark eyes and John felt his skin tighten with sudden anticipation.

“I got whiskey up in my room, figured I’d need it dealing with you two.” Greg grinned, bright and winning and John couldn’t help it, he giggled.  “Want any?”

“Yeah, why not?”  John motioned over the barhand.  “Put this on the tall one’s tab—his too.”  

“Cheers to that.”

 

—

 

Cluttered and cramped, Greg's room managed to look well-lived in and warm.

"How long have you been here?" John asked, surveying before sitting on the edge of the bed; it took up a majority of the floor, larger than John’s but not by much. It squeaked and groaned beneath him in quiet complaint.

"About twenty minutes before I rescued you from killing someone at the bar." Greg said with good cheer; he side-eyed the bed before turning to find the whiskey, presumably. John bounced a bit for good measure, trying not to giggle like a child. Sex would be disastrously loud on it.  

"I wouldn't have killed anyone."

"Maim, then." Greg had the bottle in hand, golden liquid shifting prettily in the yellow lighting of the room, but he had his brow drawn downward in frustration.  John recognized the problem immediately.

"No glasses?"

"No glasses." He pursed his lips. "Well, it's not anything good so." He shrugged and unscrewed the cap, swallowing directly from the bottle. John held out his hand, curling his fingers in a give-it-here motion; Greg held up a finger and took another swallow before passing it over.  

“You’re bed is bigger than mine.” John groused before drinking; he coughed as whiskey struck the back of his throat wrong.  “And it feels like you’ve lived here, like a flat or something.”

Greg laughed and took the bottle from him.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s warm.”  John fell back against the bed making it squeak and groan.  “And homey.”

“You’re drunk.”  Greg sat at the edge of the bed and it dipped around him, drawing John in like a weak magnet.

“Probably,” John said chasing shadows on the ceiling and adjusting so that his thigh pressed along Greg’s.  With a sigh he stretched out and placed his arms beneath his head.  “Had wine earlier.”

“With your date.”

John frowned then sighed heavily, trying to let go of the day’s events.  “Eh, wouldn’t have been much of anything anyways.”

“You sound like a bloke who’s gone through a lot more than a botched date.”

“That may be true but I’d rather drink and forget about it.”

“Cheers to that.”  Greg held the bottle just out of reach and John had to hoist himself back up to grab it. The bed jostled and John’s fingers slipped as Greg’s released the bottle; it landed between them, tilting onto John’s lap and spilling whiskey across his jeans before he caught it again.

“Shit!”  He hopped up causing tiny golden rivulets to roll down his trousers before completely absorbing into the fabric and John’s skin. Greg had his knuckles pressed to his teeth to keep from laughing. John wrinkled his nose at him and squirmed, slightly repulsed by the way denim and pants dragged across his skin.  “Christ, that feels weird.”

“You look like you pissed yourself.”

“Ha ha, how mature.  Did it get on your bed?”  

Greg patted the area beside his thigh before shaking his head. “Nah, you got all of it.”

“Splendid.” John sighed and looked at the bottle accusingly.  “I’m going to have to change now.”

“Just take them off, I got shorts or something somewhere.”

John pulled from the bottle and debated the merits of stripping down here or leaving for his room.  If he left, he’d probably not return, too drawn by the siren call of his own bed and comfortable pyjamas and solitude to wallow in.  If he stayed they’d have sex—John felt frustrated and desperate and Greg seemed stuck on the state of his failed date and both of them had their foot breaching the line towards truly, spectacularly drunk.

It’d be awkward in the morning.  Sherlock would know.

Sherlock would know.

John had his jeans unbuttoned and around his ankles before he could think too deeply about the motivation.  Greg watched, eyes trailing the lines of John’s calves and thighs with unveiled interest.  John kicked the offending material away and drank further from the whiskey.

“I’d’ve figured you for a boxer bloke,” Greg said after a moment of blatant appreciation.

“Sherlock burned them all,” John said as he stuck the thumb of his free hand beneath the waistband of his briefs, popping the elastic absentmindedly.

“Of course he did.” Greg reached vaguely for the whiskey and John handed it over without a thought. “I think he’s flirting with you.”

“Flirting?” John laughed, scorning the thought out of hand.  “He was throwing a tantrum.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Can we not talk about Sherlock?”  

Greg nodded and then smirked, bright and easy.  “You know, I can see your cock where the whiskey soaked your pants.  No wonder you walk like you’ve got chaffing.”

“Christ, Greg, if you want to fuck you can just say so.”  

“Honestly, I’d rather have you on your knees sucking my cock, but fucking works too.” Greg laughed and rolled his eyes as if in jest, cheeks a bit too flushed.

John let out startled laugh.  “Well, alright then.”

Greg froze, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, warmed spectacularly to the idea. All for it, actually.  “Yeah, spread your legs.”

Greg scrambled to oblige, legs swinging wide.  John stepped between them taking the whiskey bottle from Greg’s hand and with one last sip he set it aside.  The liquid swilled along the slick membranes of his cheeks, burning the gums as he knelt on the triangle of quilt framed by Greg’s thighs; the bed groaned and creaked before settling.  

John placed one hand on Greg’s shoulder for balance and the other at his jaw to draw him into a closed kiss; whiskey dribbled between their slotted lips before Greg pinged to John’s intention and opened his mouth letting the rest flow between them, chased by invading tongues and spilled as they swallowed hastily.  Greg slid his hands to John’s arse, fingers digging into the muscle until the skin dimpled and stretched and John groaned, hips giving a stuttered roll.  He brought his own hands to tangle in Greg’s hair, tugging on the strands until he had Greg’s neck exposed in long lines of taut tendon and tan skin. He gave a last nip to whiskey-flavored lips before turning his full attention to the taste of Greg’s skin.

John’s jumper came off first, joining his ruined jeans on the floor as it forced him to pull away from Greg’s neck; then Greg’s flew somewhere to the right leaving them in vests with shiny faces and tousled hair, the smell of whiskey strong at their noses.  They stared for a moment, chests heaving just a bit, breath humid bursts of air against slightly sticky skin.  

And then John lowered himself between Greg’s legs, laughing at Greg’s sudden wide-eyed enthrallment.

“You _know_ this is where we were headed.”

“Well, yeah, but I’d thought it would take more convincing.”

“You are seriously underestimating how frustrating my day has been.”  John reached for the fly of Greg’s trousers, rolling the heel of his palm over the growing erection there before he unzipped them. “Lift up your hips.”

Greg did, allowing John to peel away his denims in a slow, smooth motion.  When Greg dropped back to the bed it croaked and groaned, but they paid it no mind as John crawled back between Greg’s legs, breath hot against the pants stretched tight over Greg’s cock. Greg twitched, fingers gripping the quilted duvet to keep from grabbing at John or himself.

John lowered himself closer, lips parting and pressing to fabric.  He exhaled and Greg’s breath hitched.  John did it again and the hitch turned into a vocalization. Again and Greg’s hips lifted enough that John felt his lips form to Greg’s cock and fabric scrape across his tongue.

“ _John_.”

John didn’t remove Greg’s pants but he shifted so that the head of Greg’s cock now rested on his tongue, the taste of Greg seeping through woven fibers spread across John’s taste buds.  He crept further until the tension of Greg’s pants stayed him; he waited a beat and then groaned, the vibrations tickling his cheeks.

“Fuuuu—” Greg’s hips rolled up, and his fingers left the duvet to tug at the elastic of his pants in frantic plucking motions.  “Nope, nu-uh, I’m not coming in my pants like a teenager. These have to go...somewhere else.”

John sat back on his heels, smug. “And you’re expecting to what?  Come in my mouth?”

Greg gave him a sheepish grin. “I’d rather hoped we’d get to the fucking you mentioned earlier before that happened.”

“Maybe.”  John winked and without warning he grabbed the band of Greg’s pants and pulled, mouth following.  As John’s nose brushed the nest of pubic hair—jaw distended around a cock he should have fully appreciated before swallowing—Greg gave a garbled yelp, back bending as his head dropped towards the bed.

John gave an experimental suck, testing the now much stronger taste of Greg’s arousal on his tongue against the nostalgia blurring at the back of his brain. He’d missed it, he decided; missed having his mouth full and wrapped around something fully capable of choking him. He lifted his hands from where they gripped Greg’s pants and placed them on the hard muscle of Greg’s thighs, fingertips digging in and scraping against the coarse hair.

John swallowed and hummed again, enjoying the way Greg squirmed and gasped and cursed before he slid up to the crown, tongue swirling around the lip of foreskin.  He set a pace then, rising and falling in deep, leisurely strokes.  

"Not complaining, but—" Greg attempted after a moment of panting moans; a hand lifting from the duvet to push weakly against John's shoulder.

In response, John hollowed his cheeks dramatically on his ascent just as he trailed a hand from Greg’s thigh to fondle his bollocks, middle finger extended to press against his perineum. Greg gasped, body spasming as his breath rushed back out. John smirked, stretching his lips wider around Greg’s width.

“Not complaining.”  Greg acquiesced when he wrangled his breathing back under control; his thighs fell open further as his no longer protesting hand threaded into John’s hair. John let him tug, enjoying the protest of follicles and nerve endings as he bobbed.  Greg kneaded and pulled, hips rolling minutely up to meet John’s open mouth.

John disengaged with a pop.

“Lube?”

—

 

“If you don’t move,” Greg hissed between gritted teeth, “I’ll make you.”

John laughed, eyes sparkling with challenge.  “I’d like to see you try.”

And then John found himself on his back, Greg bent over him grinning wickedly before John could catch his breath. Strong arms bracketed his head, the long lean lines of them just within John’s periphery as he stared up at Greg, impressed. “Oh.”

They’d disconnected; Greg’s cock, slick with lube rubbed against John’s, slotted into place as Greg rutted against him in slow, teasing strokes.  John moaned, hands flying up to grab Greg’s forearms, arching up as his erection—flagged from his rest—filled back out, aching horribly. He felt empty and electric with building pleasure, his skin crawling with it.

“You were saying?”  It came out forced, the taunt of it buried beneath Greg’s fraying control.

John shook his head, arching up to close what little space existed between them.  His fingers gripped harder, dimpling the dark skin of Greg’s arms, muscle slipping and firming beneath them.  There would be bruises there tomorrow just as surely as there would be bruises on John’s arse, his hips.  The pace increased, John thrusting up to meet Greg and Greg falling to his forearms to meet him, face now buried in John’s neck, breath sticky and hot and desperate against John’s skin.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” John gasped, heat pooled and burning at the base of his spine, nearly blinding him as his paroxysm crested and then teetered there on the ledge, Greg above him nearly as tense.  If John had had his eyes opened, he’d have seen a mirrored expression of helpless tension, teeth bared against the inevitable tide. It took Greg first, his body tightening to the breaking point before collapsing atop John. The sudden shift in weight and pressure nearly knocked John away from the edge but Greg, glorious Greg, rolled away with a grunt and brought a hand John’s cock, pulling and twisting until John’s teeth went numb and his back arched up off the bed. He barely noticed the ropes of come that now stripped his belly, sticking like dew drops in his chest hair and puddling in every plane and dip of flesh.  

They lay like that, Greg half on John, half sprawled across the bed and John watching the ceiling as his heart rate settled and his skin cooled.

“Loudest fucking sex I’ve had,” John mumbled after a moment, shifting to make the bed groan in demonstration.  Greg laughed, loudly like it had been drawn from him in surprise.

“Well, it was that.”

“Mmhm,” John hummed and stretched, nose wrinkling as the spunk across his stomach cracked, flaking away from where it had dried.

Greg propped himself up on one elbow, eyebrow raised as he looked down his nose at John. “What? No comment on how spectacular I was?”

“Eh, you were average.” John shoved Greg to show he was joking and they both laughed, the sound trailing off as exhaustion made itself know.  John stretched again and forced himself to get up and gather his clothing. He looked at the spunk still crusted against his chest and groaned, wandering into the loo to grab a wet linen.  With a quick rub down, he offered the cloth to Greg.  “I need to get back to my room, no need to give Sherlock more clues than he’ll already have tomorrow.”

“He’s going to be unbearable.”  Greg took the cloth and wiped down his own abdomen and chest. “And jealous.”

“I doubt that.” John pulled his trousers back on, wrinkling his nose as the wet patches dragged against his skin.  “Besides, I don’t really care. I’m still pissed at him.”

John didn’t understand the way Greg looked at him, a bit too knowing.  So he shrugged it off and wished Greg a good evening and limped back to his own room, passed out the second his head hit the pillow.


	2. Deleted Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's a scene for y'all that didn't make the final cut but that I still quite enjoyed

“Lube, Greg, lube.”  

“Uh, yes, I think.”  Greg swallowed, took a breath and tried again.  “Luggage. Maybe wallet.”

“Good.”  John pushed himself up off the ground and wobbled over the Greg’s open suitcase, knees protesting the sudden change in position. He bent exaggeratedly, showing Greg his arse as he shuffled around clothing and shoes.  Finding nothing he crawled over to Lestrade’s discarded jeans and pulled out the billfold, thumbing through the contents until he found what he needed.  “Aha! And a condom to match, this thing is within its expiry date, right?”

Greg snorted, finally gathering his wits about him.  “Of course it is.”

“Well, you did say it’s been awhile…”  John trailed off as he straightened, waving the condom and packet of slick like victory ribbons.

“Fuck off.”  Greg kicked his pants the rest of the way off before hoisting himself up his bed, back against the headboard.  “Take those off.”

“What?” John looked down at his own pants, stretched tight over his cock.  He pulled on the elastic, sliding them low on his hips. “These?”

“Who would have guessed John-fuzzy jumpers-Watson was a fucking tease.”

“I like my jumpers, thank you very much.” John snipped, but obliged Greg’s demand, slowly slipping his pants down until he could kick them off.  Greg motioned him over, and John crawled onto the bed until he straddled Greg’s thighs, bending over him to grip the metal headboard when Greg directed him to.  Greg slid lower down the bed to align his mouth with John’s cock.  

“Christ, your huge,” Greg breathed before wrapping his lips around the heavy head.  

“Good thing-ah-you’re doing the fucking tonight.” John fought the urge to thrust his cock deeper into Greg’s mouth, fingers gripping the headboard until his joints creaked.  Greg chuckled, sliding forward so that he could swallow John down further, bobbing a few times at the new depth.  John cursed, thighs trembling with the effort to stay still, body thrumming with alcohol and pleasure.

Greg brought his hands up to John’s arse, kneading the flesh before pulling him forward; John watched as his cock nearly disappearing down Greg’s throat, his lips spreading wide around John. John moaned and the bed creaked as Greg pulled back, sputtering.

“Not for fucking beginners,” He coughed before trying again.

**Author's Note:**

> Now I'd like you to imagine this every time you watch the scene with Greg in the actual Baskerville episode, him all casual-as-you-please and Sherlock all theatrical and pissy.
> 
> The next 'chapter' is a deleted scene!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://catie-brie.tumblr.com/) where I would love to answer questions, comments, chats or just have you as a friendly stalker. It's also where I periodically post about fanfic I am working on.
> 
> Kudos and comments, as always, are greatly appreciated.


End file.
